post apocalyptic breakfast (1.27.20) (edit 4.19.20)
The first meal I eat after the apocalypse will be breakfast
eggs would feel symbolic but I'll still be vegan
and I’ll walk the end times with principles intact
I’ll make sourdough toast with hummus, miso spread
under it, an avocado plucked from the yard, halved,
sliced fine and green, Tapatio sprinkled
atop like blood
I pledge to remain essentially millennial—
I'll build a house out of empty coffee cans,
green La Llaves and yellow Bustelos stacked
empty as artillery shells from the revolution
that never came
The morning light will be lilac and orange rind
like steel sink scraps with the broken disposal or
my lover's earnest watercolors
I promise not to yearn to hold
one Platonically perfect breast
in my hand—just one, just for a second,
not daring to ask for two
When I was little I prayed only
to miss this moment, not to be
one of Jesus's forgotten many but here it is:
real life asserting itself again. It occurs
to me that today’s wet laundry
is not so different from yesterday’s,
knotted like guts.
After breakfast I’ll sit quietly, think about lunch
grant myself allowances, miss raw things
like anger and cold
For now I’ll chew my toast, gaze masculinely
at the wastes, pretend to water flowers,
take my coffee in the mist with the ghosts and
talk to saguaros, still not daring to
brush their spines
